


The Last Dragon

by Bluandorange, krebkrebkreb



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Akande mentioned in passing, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1950s, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Dragon Hanzo Shimada, M/M, Rancher McCree, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2019-04-06 18:39:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14063037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluandorange/pseuds/Bluandorange, https://archiveofourown.org/users/krebkrebkreb/pseuds/krebkrebkreb
Summary: A dragon leaves his home in search of his younger brother. Centuries pass, magic begins to die and is replaced by the inventions of Man. The dragon's hatred of Man grows. He continues to search. One day, he meets a sorcerer who learns of his hatred, and, to punish the dragon for his vanity and pride, the sorcerer traps him within a human body. "I can restore you," says the sorcerer, "if you can find your way back to me." With a flick of his fingers, he transports the man who is no longer a dragon across the sea.





	The Last Dragon

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! So, this is an RP that has been reformatted into a fic. As such, it's gonna ping-pong back and forth between Hanzo and Jesse's POV. Hopefully it won't be too disorienting. This is also directly inspired by The Last Unicorn by Peter S. Beagle and there will be some references to that throughout.

The rain stopped probably thirty minutes ago, maybe forty, not that the dragon who is no longer a dragon has been keeping track. He's exhausted in a way he's never experienced before. He's tiny. He's weak. At some point, he sank to his knees and he's still there now, tiny human hands balled into fists resting against his thighs. Thick black hair heavy with rainwater sticks to his cheeks and neck and shoulders. He's still reeling. He can't believe this has happened to him.

The farm animals all made it inside during the storm, but as the rain clears and the birdsong and insect noises return so does the barking of a dog. It chases Jesse McCree in energetic circles as he comes to inspect his pastures and fences for damage, a likelihood considering the usually-dry river nearby.   
  
At first he can't believe his eyes, seeing a man out here. "Hey!" he shouts, waving from a distance. "Howdy?"

The dragon who's no longer a dragon jerks at the sound, the phantom impression of his scales bristling as he recognizes it for human. He jerks his head around to glare at the man, lip curling to show teeth, forgetting that his own are unimpressive now, just nubby squares no good for rending flesh.

The dog, dashing close enough to see those teeth, still recognizes the animal intent in the gesture. He circles back to heel behind his fearless master. It wants no part in fighting a beast like this; it handles wide-eyed cattle, not this.   
  
"Hey," Jesse tries again, worried this time, "you okay over there?"

The dragon glares at the dog, despite the small amount of pride that it, at least, recognizes him for what he is. It should not have come as close as it did. It should have known forty paces before then, sixty. He should be massive, should he choose. But not now. Not anymore. His eyes sweep up to the man and narrow further. "Who are you?" he growls. His throat is raw and the sound is thin. He screamed for so long, with such force, during the storm, he must have damaged his human throat in some way. This angers him further. He shouldn't have to speak this way, with human words. A righteous and justified roar should not result in  _ pain _ . Will this body take from him everything, even his ability to express his anguish?

"Now, I think I should be asking  _ you  _ that question." His hand twitches towards his belt where there should be, but isn't, a gun. A man doesn't expect to see naked lunatics on his property, right after a sudden rainstorm. A man certainly doesn't expect to see naked lunatics that scare his dog. He didn't even expect any wild animals. He's going soft.

The loose fists on the dragon’s thighs tighten again, enough for him to feel the dull nails dig into his fleshy palms. It takes him a moment to decide on what to say. He is no longer a being of magic, he can no longer say his true name. "I am a traveler, in search of my brother." Pulling together his strength, he forces himself to stand, facing the man fully, his back straight, his head held high "Who are  _ you? _ "

Jesse grins, happy to have gotten a straight answer, except-- oh, good heavens. His expression falls a bit as he desperately holds a hand out in front of him to block the stranger's lower half from his view. "Name's McCree. I own this land. You look like you might be in some sort of trouble; this ain't exactly the kind of landscape for your particular style of dress."

"What land is this?" The landscape is not so different from the plains surrounding the sorcerer's abode, but the magic still clinging to his bones insists otherwise. He has been Displaced, even if he cannot fully comprehend how or where to.

Jesse laughs, loud and booming and entirely to hide his confusion. How can someone not know where they are? "Well, mine, like I said. We're in the great state of Texas. Where did you say you were from?" He is well aware the stranger said nothing of the sort.

"I didn't. Within which continent does the state of Texas reside?"

There goes his false cheer, his expression sliding right to and then past what the fuuuuck, settling on concern. "North America, partner. You need a doctor?"

The man who is not a dragon growls as if he were still one, glaring off toward the horizon. There is no human word strong enough to express his frustration. He's been sent across the ocean! Given a body weak enough to  _ die _ on the journey back to Africa! But hadn't the sorcerer said he wished for him to suffer? He snaps his jaws, wishing he could feel the body of Akande crushed between them. One day. Ooooh, one day.

"You're acting like you might have hit your head," Jesse says. Like he's a little insane, Jesse does not say. He likes to think he's smarter than to provoke a crazy man that scares his dog.

"Where is the nearest harbor? I must--" he growls again, frustrated that he has to resort to human’s dirty, large, UGLY seafaring vessels for his needs. "--I must return to Africa."

"Af-Africa?" Jesse screws his face up, nose wrinkling and eyebrows clumping tight with confusion because he cannot possibly have heard that right. "We're a good six hundred miles from the nearest coastline, probably."

Human legs cannot possibly carry him that far. After the storm, simply standing is taking its toll. " _ How _ do I get there?" It sounds like it pains him to ask this man for advice, because it  _ does _ .

That tone, the pain in it, coupled with the man's weakness and the genuine strangeness of the situation... Jesse shakes his head at the decision he's already come to. "I dunno, but you're gonna at least need some clothes to get there. Come on back to the house and let me get you some and make you a meal."

The man who is no longer a dragon takes in a deep breath. He does not want this human's sympathy, his  _ pity _ . He is not a naked lunatic lost on this man's lands. He is something older than time, a true immortal, kin of the storm. He is also not a fool. He is stuck in this human prison until he returns to Akande, and to reach him...he must survive sympathy and pity both. Weather it like the mountains of his home. With a sharp nod, he starts walking toward the human with direct, purposefully strides. "Lead me."

Jesse takes half a backwards step before centering himself. He should not be alarmed by this crazy, naked, foreign man. He has the power here. He has the dog and the muscles. When he gets back home he will have the dog and the muscles and the  _ gun _ .   
  
"Right this way. Mind your step; that rain waterlogged the topsoil somethin' fierce. We haven't had weather like that round here in a while now." He keeps his tone friendly. Smalltalk is something he's good at.

"And you will not for some time more." Because he can't keep throwing temper tantrums if he expects to make this body last. He can already feel the weakness of it, in every muscle, with every movement. He refuses to show it, but it’s there. This body is dying all around him.

Jesse picks up on none of it, still keeping his eye on the man while they move with the concern he still might reserve for someone dangerous. "We sure won't. The drought is expected to last for another while. The winter rains don't even come for a few more months at least."

Oh, the dragon  _ hates _ places like this. He could feed of Mother Nature's storms, take their strength in as his own, but the mountains will catch them all before they reach this barren place. He must leave here as soon as possible. This is no place for his kind. He never should have come to the plains in Africa, either. He never should have left his castle in Hanamura. Never. He broods, silently, eyes clouded with grief and frustration, until his footing fails him and his weak limbs twist, and he falls with a startled, sharp cry onto the damp earth. Pain flares up from the stupid, fragile, and now ruined left ankle.

The dog barks once in reaction and Jesse calls out an unnecessary command to hush it, stopping a few feet away from the fallen man. "Shit! You okay there?"

He growls, clawing at the earth in frustration before forcing himself to actually begin pushing upright. The pain is--he's not  _ used _ to it, his kind are not so breakable, and he's certainly never ruined a limb by simply  _ using it _ . He's now covered in mud all down his front, his hands stained down to the knuckles. It's almost as unpleasant as the pain. "My  _ ankle _ ."

"Lemme give you a hand. You could have really hurt yourself turning your ankle and it'll mess you up real good to walk with all your weight on it." He extends the offered hand, pushing his dog back with the other. Get out of here. Stop making this weird.

The man who is not a dragon growls again, hating, HATING this whole situation, but does in fact put his weight on his good leg and takes the arm he's offered. He almost takes satisfaction in staining the man's shirt with his muddy hands. He can't because the pain is too insistent.

Jesse shivers as the hand touches his arm. Static electricity or something, he guesses. "I've got you. Hurt myself in these fields plenty of times. It's nice to have some sort of company that talks, you know. Fido isn't really..." He forces himself to chuckle at his own joke.

The man who was a dragon just Glares at him, not finding his useless chatter the least bit endearing. Least of all if he is being compared to the man's  _ dog _ .

He doesn't exactly have other human beings around! Jesse smiles apologetically at the glare. "Sorry. Shouldn't make jokes when you're in pain."

“No. You should not. Now lead me.” He tries to keep his head high as they walk despite the pain and the amount of weight he has to place on the human in order to bare the pain.

"Right this way." Jesse tries very hard to hide his smile. Oh, what a cute, prideful, strange little asshole this guy is. Where in the world could he be from? Certainly not around here. He doesn't  _ sound _ like any of the Chinese families he knows are dotted in the towns nearby, descendants of railroad workers in the last century, but that's the closest he can pin the face.

He can feel the way the human is looking at him and it makes his skin crawl perhaps more than the unfamiliar and ugly feeling of the mud drying to his skin. "Ask your question, Human," he all but hisses between his teeth. "And do not  _ stare _ ."

_ What _ , Jesse's mind  _ immediately _ supplies at being addressed as human. Beyond it being weird, it's just plain insulting. "I have a  _ name _ , you know. You still ain't told me yours."

“Your  _ question _ .”

He snorts quietly. Pff. "What question?"

"You were staring, trying to understand me."

"I think it's reasonable a fella wants to understand the man he's leading into his home."

Rather than repeat himself for a _ third time _ , he growls at the man then looks away, toward the home in question.

It's white, old, and built for more people than live there now. A family probably lived there originally. A big American flag hangs on a pole, definite proof they're not in... wherever this guy is from. Seriously, he has to get back to  _ Africa _ ?   
  
"Watch your step. The big tree there has a root that sticks out in the road a little."

While the dragon would like to keep his head high, he wants to avoid another spill to the ground more. This time he heeds the man's warnings and actively watches his step until they are finally off the wet ground and instead on the bleached or perhaps painted steps of the human's home. Even then, he has a hard time looking away from his new feet. They are...strange.    
  
He thinks the sorcerer may have intentionally given him a dysfunctional body. His uninjured ankle seems too narrow to properly support him. It's little wonder the other became twisted. The injury has already started to swell, his pale skin red and blotchy around the joint. It’s disgusting. This body is  _ disgusting _ .

Jesse hesitates, once they're up the steps and in the door. Where does he put this guy?   
  
"Come, uh. Come sit down on the sofa and put that leg up. Then I'll get you something to clean off with and some clean clothes."   
  
He gestures to a wide piece of furniture, about six feet right of the door and covered in a variety of clashing handmade blankets, intending to lead the strange, angry, nameless fellow there.

The man who is no longer a dragon jerks his head up enough to actually take in the house. He...isn't sure what he was expecting, but the odd mixture of wood and textiles is unlike any he's seen. Unlike the interior of Akande's fortress. Unlike the castle built in his honor by the Shimada Clan, back home in Hanamura. Of course, he has not been in many human dwellings, even during his search for his brother. He has very little to compare it to.

He is surprised to find the furniture so  _ comfortable _ , especially on his taxed human musculature. He ends up sinking back into the cushions despite himself.

Jesse resigns himself to laundry as he pulls one of the blankets across the man's lap. Cover your indecency  _ holy shit _ . He grabs a pillow from the nearby armchair. Both pieces of furniture exist almost exclusively to give him a place to sleep when he's too tired to climb the stairs.   
  
"Don't go growlin' at me because I'm about to touch yer leg, okay?"

The man who is not a dragon huffs, but gives a short nod. He's still slightly distracted by the feeling of cloth on skin, and cloth on dried dirt on skin. The pain has receded to a more manageable level, now that he is no longer expected to walk.

With only a short sigh to betray his anxiety at the entire... situation, the rancher takes gentle hold of the other man's leg and lifts it to carefully slide the pillow underneath. "You should keep that elevated, and I'll get you some ice for it. You think it's broken?"

The man who is not a dragon hisses when the human touches the swollen skin with his rough, ugly hands. He has to force himself not to jerk away. " _ How _ would I know?" he growls.

"Sorry, sorry. I know that hurt ya." Jesse pets the man's shin once, gently, as an apology. It strikes him as the right thing to do while he's doing it, something he might do to soothe a friend he's just wronged, but it's immediately a strange thing to have done when he's making eye contact with this stranger again. He clears his throat. "You've never broken anything before?"

He shakes his head "This isn't--" his jaw clicks as he forces his mouth shut. The pain, perhaps, making him forget himself. A human wouldn't believe him, if he tried to explain. So few remembered magic, true magic. Akande was one of the last. "No," he says, with an air of finality.

McCree raises his eyebrows but says nothing.  _ Riiiight _ ... "We should get you to a doctor, then."

"Fine." The sooner someone heals this, the sooner he can leave for Africa

"I'll go get that ice and something you can clean yourself off with. You sit tight. Then I'll call the doc." He offers another friendly smile but keeps his hands to  _ himself _ .

The man who is not a dragon nods his approval, expecting the human to scurry off to see to his tasks. The only thing missing is a dismissive flick of his wrist to send him on his way.

Jesse  _ saunters _ rather than scurries, confidence in every step. He won't have to worry about being unarmed after a couple moments in his bedroom. Even if the stranger has bad intent, and Jesse actually doesn't think so, he can't do anything with a bum ankle that a pistol can't stop.   
  
He's back in a few minutes with a basin of water, a cloth, and... he forgot the ice in his haste to grab a gun.   
  
"Here you go, Mr.-- you really don't want to tell me your name?"

While the human is away, he finds himself drawn to the uncomfortable itch of the dried dirt along his front and forearms. He scratches at it, slowly at first, and then with more intensity, as his nails are dull and useless and the dirt insists on sticking on fine hairs he had not realized humans possessed. He is engrossed in clearing a patch of skin directly under his chin when the human returns. And with such an annoying question. Will he keep insisting on a name? Are all humans this way? He can imagine so; the same question, asked again and again, from here to Africa.    
  
There is no alternative. He will have to find a name a human can use. Better that, than allow a human to presume they can name him themselves. The very thought makes a tail he no longer has lash in agitation.    
  
"Hanzo," he says, picking the name of the last Shimada Lord he had deigned to allow into his den. The real Hanzo Shimada would be dust by now, or so he assumes. He...admittedly does not know exactly how long it has been since he left his home and his humans behind.

“Mr. Hanzo.” He tips the folded washcloth in lieu of actually touching his hat to properly tip that. Something about a name helps him settle this situation as something more  _ normal _ . The way he says the name is a little bit wrong, putting too much emphasis on the first syllable and his accent morphing the vowels, but the friendliness in his voice is coming from a place of honesty. “Delighted. This’ll help you get that mess off better than scratching up your skin will.”

The man who is not named Hanzo holds out his hand to take the cloth. The human seems to be right--it is much for fit for the task than his pitiful excuse for nails, and with less damage to his chest. He pauses to scowl at said chest, realizing that just scratching it has caused it to become as red as his twisted ankle. Human skin is so useless and delicate. No wonder they insist on wearing as many layers as they can acquire.

McCree gets up for that ice without saying anything more, leaving the basin within reach. He's already thinking about what clothes he has that will fit this guy without hanging off him and looking strange. It probably can't be helped, but still...   
  
He comes back with a squishy cloth pouch in his hands. "Here. Rest this on your ankle while I call the doc and see if we should head to the hospital."

The man who is not named Hanzo gives the pouch an appraising look. When he takes it, he hisses involuntarily--it's so cold! He hadn't realized something so small could be so cold--or is it simply this body's fault? Normally, temperature had no effect on him. He knew cold for what it was, but it was not  _ painful _ in this way, as he was a creature of magic and not truly flesh. He almost drops the pouch in his surprise. Instead he tosses it away, past the human, who he fixes with an accusing glare. "You want me to put  _ that _ on my bare skin?!"

McCree  _ huffs _ , not taking too kindly to his things being thrown around like this. He turns around and bends over to get it, speaking all the while. "Yes, and I would appreciate you not chucking my stuff across the room. It'll take the swellin' down. Make it feel better."   
  
He straightens up, offering the ice pack again. "Just give it a try for a minute."

"It's  _ cold _ ." Shouldn't a human know that? Shouldn't he understand that it's--it's clearly damaging!

"That's. The  _ point _ ." He waves it a little. Take.

"The point of  _ what _ ?" And then, with a raised chin, " _ you _ are not a doctor." The man who is not named Hanzo is not required, as a human, to take this human's advice. He is not a specialist or an expert.

_ And if you're what a patient is like, I'm glad for it _ , McCree absolutely does not say. He'll deal with cattle, not assholes. That's  _ fine _ .   
  
He sets the ice pack down with a shrug that's maybe a little stiffer than the action should be. "Look, it's your choice. If you wanna be stupid and let it hurt more then it's on you."

The man who is not named Hanzo keeps his head high and does not deign to acknowledge the insult with a reply. Besides; having his ankle elevated has already taken away most of the pain. "Have you sent for the doctor?" he asks.

"It-it ain't like  _ magic _ . I have to go use the phone." Which he'll do now in the kitchen, if only to stop being looked at expectantly like he's some kind of dog.

Of course it wouldn't involve magic. Humans have forgotten their connection to magic, more so now than when he first began his journey. Whatever this phone was, it was likely another invention made of metals and wood and Spirits know what else. Well. Let the human go play with his phone. The man who is not named Hanzo will take this time to finish cleaning and then to center himself.

The dog sits on the floor while the man is gone, watching the stranger on the sofa. His tail thumps against the floor a few times, patiently. He‘s a good boy, only begging for attention with his expression.   
  
The phone conversation is relatively short, once McCree is off hold, and ends in him agreeing to bring his... houseguest in for an X-ray in case something is broken.    
  
“You hear any of that?” he’s already asking on his way back to the living room, talking loudly to be heard over the distance.

"No," says the man who is not named Hanzo, without opening his eyes. His hands are folded neatly in his lap, his skin washed clean, though there is still dirt under his blunt nails. It hasn't begun to bother him.

"Well," he says, hands on his hips, "doc wants you at his office to get checked out proper. If you snapped somethin' and it heals wrong..." He trails off, expecting the other man to understand.

"Wonderful. Then we shall go."

"Now hang on. I didn't see you had a wallet or nothin'." Literally, absolutely nothing on his person but his person himself. He closes his eyes to sigh and something shifts in the brief moment of the blink, so fast in his periphery he almost misses it. "Am I going to have to be taking care of all this outta my own pocket and the kindness of my heart?"

The man who's name is not Hanzo finally opens his eyes, leveling the human with an imperial gaze. He waits for the human to realize he's answered his own question.

McCree shrugs, defeated. "Yeah, figured as much. What size pants do you wear? Your inseam looks a little shorter than mine, but I hope what I got does you okay."

"Dress me to the best of your judgement."

"You could say please, y'know." He turns to head back up the stairs, a little frustrated. Hours out of his day, miles on his truck, a stranger in his house, and he doesn't even say please.   
  
At least he's pretty.

While the human is upstairs collecting the clothing, the man who is not named Hanzo considers how he might explain the importance of his quest to someone not likely to believe. Surely the day will come when he will need to, when a human will deny him aid based on their paltry perception of reality. He will need to convince them with words, as he can no longer simply inspire the awe he deserves with his physical presence. The sooner he finds these words, the easier his journey to Africa will be. Perhaps 'please' will need to be one of them.

It will, to get Jesse back to being friendly with him. Not that he's even considering withdrawing his help; he'll just be a little grumpy about it.   
  
The man nearly trips on the dog on his way back into the living room, stumbling and hopping a bit on his left foot to avoid stepping on the thing's tail. "Fido! Fucksakes, boy, lie down anywhere but the door-- Mr. Hanzo, try these on for size." He offers a folded pair of worn denim work pants with a shirt on top. Both are in need of ironing but otherwise serviceable. In the stack are also some socks and an undershirt but he's not going to  _ lend _ underwear. He can just scrub the pants when he gets them back, thank you very much.

The man who is not named Hanzo takes the clothes with a polite bow of the head. "Thank you, Mr. McCree." He sets the clothing in his lap to better inspect it. It seems the first article is a shirt, much like the one the human is wearing himself. With slow, considered movements, the man who is not named Hanzo begins to dress. 

Despite his best efforts, he manages to twist the shirt behind his own back, forcing him to take his arms back from the sleeves not once, but twice. When he finally manages to get both arms slipped into place, he has unknowingly turned the shirt inside out. It's not until he begins attempting to match the buttons to the correct holes to close the shirt's front that it becomes apparent he's made some mistake. What kind, he's not sure. He looks between his shirt front and the human's, eyes narrowed, searching for the answer.

He can tell they are not the same but--why  _ not _ ?

The human is looking  _ away _ , politely averting his eyes from the naked guy on his sofa and focusing them on his mostly bare wall. He keeps blinking, every time the man makes a big movement, caught off guard by the feeling that he's something that  _ isn't right _ and is just...  _ too much _ . Fucking weird day...   
  
When he notices Hanzo has stopped, he chances a look back and can't help but reconsider his thoughts about head injuries when he sees what has stalled the man. "You're, uh..." He grabs his own shirt collar and makes a little sideways flipping motion with his hand, like he's turning the inside out. "You've got the wrong side out."

"The  _ wrong _ \--" he growls and sets about removing the shirt AGAIN. Three times now! He has not failed at something three times in--in centuries! This is--"How would you even know?" Both sides look the same to him!

McCree actually has to think about it. How  _ does _ he know-- "The seams are on the inside," he says at the same time he realizes it. "The buttons face out, too. Same for pants."

With a huff, the man turns the shirt around in his hands, finds the buttons and--"The seam, here?" He holds the fabric between both hands, showing the human what he assumes he means; the excess fabric that faces away from the side with the buttons.

"Yes! You got it. That part ain't supposed to show." His enthusiasm flags a bit by the time he's done talking and he's almost completely faking his smile. Jesse has tried to avoid thinking about it, but what in the  _ world _ is this guy's history? Who is unfamiliar with clothes? What kind of trouble does someone like that bring with them? What kind of trouble is someone like that  _ in _ ?

The man who's name is not Hanzo gives another annoyed huff before, again, attempting to dress. Seam on the inside, both arms through the sleeves  _ without _ twisting, and then each button fit into its mirroring hole. Despite his previous confusion, he works efficiently and, by the last button, swiftly. 

Next are the pants, which will surely prove to be more troublesome, if only for the required movement of his twisted ankle. He takes the time to ensure the buttons and seam are where they should be, takes a breath and tightens his jaw. First, the good leg. Simple. Next...he swallows, braces and shifts to lift the bad leg through. The movement is awkward and he can't quite keep himself from hissing in pain as the ankle is jostled in some wrong way, but, eventually, after shifting both feet to the floor and bracing his weight against the good leg, he's able to pull the thick blue fabric up to his waist. He lets out his breath and, with care, arranges the ridiculously delicate genitals of his new body behind the fabric before drawing it closed and slipping the button through its hole. There is still a...metal...strip of some kind left open, though and, with a quick look to the human for verification, he is sure it will need closing as well. 

How.

McCree is  _ studiously _ ignoring him while he does this, going so far as to actually turn halfway away to give him some privacy. No knowledge of clothes, no awareness of  _ decency _ , but he speaks English... No, stop thinking about it. Stop thinking about it, Jesse. Stop thinking and feeling bad for him. Take him to the doctor and maybe buy him a bus ticket and you can go back to your regular, not-weird life.

The human is ignoring him, again, when he would  _ need _ his help. Of  _ course. _ No matter. He can solve this on his own. It has to close in some way--but the seam on the human's pants is closed  _ over _ the metal, obscuring the solution from him! How infuriating! It--surely it has to be this dangling metal piece...He can feel his mouth splitting into a smile when, indeed, pulling that metal accent up closes the metal together. "I am done." If he's a little proud of himself, he finds no shame in it.

Jesse claps his hands together once, satisfied, startling the dog into barking. "Hey, hush!" he barks back. "Sorry bout that," he says to the stranger. "I can get you a single old boot or somethin' if you want but I don't think it'll fit and I'm sure they'll slap ya down in a wheelchair anyway."

The man considers the shoes the human is wearing, his smile immediately slipping into a frown. They Do Not look comfortable. "No, I...believe I will be fine. Thank you."

"Of course," he says, like anybody would do this. Like this is normal and not absolutely bizarre. "It's almost an hour to drive to to the hospital. We should start soon, and it's my honest recommendation that you take the ice."

His frown deepens; he had not been expecting this argument to return. "It is cold enough to hurt," he replies.

"Why didn't you say something about it hurting then? I'll go get you a rag to put on your skin." He holds up a finger to indicate 'one moment' before returning to the kitchen. He isn't gone long, probably just grabbing one from a countertop before returning to hand it over. "Here ya go."

The man takes it, his expression skeptical. However, the cold is not nearly as biting through the rag, just as the human said. Gingerly, he tries to set it on his ankle and, between it and the thick pants, the cold is dampened enough to be...somewhat soothing. "...Thank you."

"Welcome." Jesse glances around, trying to see if there's anything pressing he needs to do before he goes that he's just forgetting... He sighs when he spots Fido happily licking himself in the doorway. "Can you sit tight for a minute while I get the dog fed? The cattle are good to go but he'll bark us deaf the entire ride if he doesn't get supper."

"Of course." While the human does seem to enjoy his exaggerations, the man who is not named Hanzo suspects the dog could damage his hearing if he became insistent. Every one of its vocalizations has been  _ very loud _ .

"Thanks. I'll get you fresh ice when I'm done and we'll be off." He snaps his fingers and the dog gets up, wagging its tail as it follows McCree into the kitchen.

While the human is gone, the man who is no longer a dragon and is not named Hanzo returns to formulating the best way to explain his predicament. He does not consider he might need to explain why he is unfamiliar with customs or clothes, with human inventions or expectations. Instead, he focuses on how to convince a human that helping him would bring them good fortune, to reassure them of his importance and that, when he returns to his full glory, he will be in a position to repay their kindness a hundred fold.

McCree is mostly interested in getting his pants back, not good fortune. Beyond getting his pants back, he's interested in his dog not relieving himself in the house. When Fido is done eating he ushers him out the front door with another 'one second' gesture to the man. While Fido runs off outside, McCree leans in the open door frame, watching the sky.   
  
"Mighty strange storm you got caught out in earlier."

Pulled from his own thoughts, he lifts his eyes to the human. "...they are uncommon out here, I'd imagine."

McCree nods. "We haven't had enough rain in years. Certainly not at this time of year."

"I doubt you will see another like it." Because soon he will be gone.

McCree snorts. "You ain't from around here but you're still gonna be a pessimist about the weather?"

"Merely an observation," as to imply otherwise may call into question what right he would have to know such things.

The dog running back up onto the porch saves him the trouble of worrying about brain damage again. "Think I'll go drive the truck close to the door and come back to help you to it," he says after a moment's consideration. "No sense walking all the way over there."

"Thank you, for the consideration."

"Sure." He literally waves the thanks off, then adjusts his hat on the way out the door. He lets it hang open beside him, hoping to keep an ear out for... exactly for what McCree really isn't sure. Something suspicious. Because something about this situation is  _ beyond _ strange.

The truck in question is a 1950 Ford F-1 and his absolute prize posession. Sure it's a little dirtier than that moniker might suggest, dust from roads and fields coat the green paint and tires and one of the bumpers has a dent, but to anyone who knows what to listen for it certainly has a healthy sounding engine.   
  
He slams the driver side door behind him as he hops out, opening the passenger side on his way back into the house.

When he comes inside, this guest, for lack of a better word, has been overtaken by a strange expression. He stares out the door at the truck, eyes fixed but hazy. His mouth--typically a harsh, disapproving line--is relaxed enough for a hint of his front teeth to show between his lips. It's not a look of shock--no, nothing so sharp. It's something more...lost than that.    
  
The man who was not named Hanzo had seen the truck and thought, almost dismissively, that the dirt staining the vehicles sides marred an otherwise lovely shade of green. Were it clean, it would be a passable, if extremely lackluster, imitation of his brother's emerald.

It was simply habit to allow any reminder of his brother to spark a trip through his memories of them together. It should have been effortless. For a dragon, memory is an endless thing, beginning at the beginning of time immortal and continuing forward with perfect recollection until the present day. But he is not a dragon. His mind is not meant to hold eons of knowledge, let alone sift through them within the span of a breath. He cannot.    
  
He doesn't realize he cannot. He doesn't remember why he is staring at the green of the truck or why it fills him with a melancholy longing larger than his body can contain. He simply does.

McCree grabs the ice pack off the stranger's ankle with a quiet, polite, "Excuse me." He returns to the kitchen and opens the freezer to get fresh ice.   
  
When he returns and the man still looks... like that... It sets off even louder alarm bells. He crosses to him in a handful of long strides and gets down on one knee to try and get a better view at the guy's face. "Hey, Mr. Hanzo. You okay?" He raises his eyebrows a bit as he asks the question, searching for eye contact.

There's a voice, so close, and breath on his face, and a presence of a body somewhere before him, and he jerks out of his own mind enough to  _ see _ that there is--there is a human man before him, speaking in a gentle tone. He wonders who that tone is for. Is it for him? Has he earned such kindness? He searches the human's face, finding it sun-kissed and naturally brown, freckled across the nose and bearded along the cheeks and chin. A handsome man, by some standards, with intelligent, searching eyes. Eyes that still hold magic in them. He isn't sure how he knows that, but he doesn't question his own certainty. "What...do you see?" he asks, mindlessly, driven by a simple, curious urge. The words leave him slowly. Dream like.

McCree takes a surprised breath, surprised by the question. He doesn't answer right away, considering how honestly he wants to answer this. It seems like an honest enough question, from this scared looking stranger sitting on his sofa in borrowed clothes with dirt under his nails. "You look like you're too big for your skin," he says, finally, "and you really ain't from around here. But I promise you're safe."

He gives a slow nod, finding nothing to distrust about these statements. He keeps coming back to the human's  _ eyes _ , though. "Are...are you aware they're magic? Your eyes."

McCree chuckles, flashing a charming smile that could win him awards. "Now, I been told I'm handsome, but never  _ magic _ ."

The handsome smile earns a smile in return, though his is more subdued. It reaches his eyes, all the same. "It's so rare, now. Magic..." His own thoughts catch up to him seconds before the words tumble from his lips. His eyebrows draw down, his smile falling, "Magic is  _ dying _ ," and what a terrible truth that is. It hangs heavy in his heart, heavier maybe than the longing that had filled him and has now been forgotten. His gaze becomes sharper, more insistent as he draws it back to the human before him. "You are one of the  _ last _ humans to have it, do you realize how  _ important _ that is?"

Head injury, or the truth? Are these just the ramblings of a potentially concussed, maybe emotionally damaged man, or is this the truth in some of the old folktales and wild stories he's heard. The crazy aim he's always had in a true crisis, the way time slows and his vision goes grey. The way time slows and he can pick out heartbeats and the space between his opponent's eyes. He doesn't know the truth of what's being said, but he's finding himself willing to listen.   
  
"Mr. Hanzo, I don't know what you're talking about, but we'll have plenty of time to talk on the road."

"The road?"    
  
To the doctor. Because his ankle is damaged. He looks down at it, as if remembering it's there, hurting. Within a few heartbeats, the afternoon returns to him, the fog in his eyes clearing as he remembers himself, his purpose. Had--had he forgotten? He brushes a hand to his head, fear flashing through his eyes as he considers what this might mean--no. No, fear is not useful. Africa, Akande, and then his true form. The man who is not a dragon sets his jaw, the stony expression returning. "Yes; we should go."


End file.
